


Connected by Love

by SeriouslyBella (BellaFuckingRockwell)



Series: 10 Songfics Challenge - House [5]
Category: House M.D.
Genre: Catharsis, Crying, Emotional Baggage, Hurt Greg House, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Making Love, PTSD, Past Domestic Violence, Sexual Content, Songfic, nothing graphic or gratuitous
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-27
Updated: 2019-10-27
Packaged: 2021-01-04 19:03:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,237
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21202541
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BellaFuckingRockwell/pseuds/SeriouslyBella
Summary: 18+ ONLY. DO NOT READ OR OTHERWISE INTERACT WITH MY CONTENT IF YOURE UNDER 18.Doing the 10 songfics challenge, this time in the Houseverse. Playlist goes on shuffle and for the first ten songs that come up I write a short fic inspired by it.Song 10: Jack White - Connected by LoveSummary: House desperately wants to trust Wilson.Nothing graphic but themes of past domestic abuse do arise - please heed the tags.





	Connected by Love

**Author's Note:**

> Not the kind of thing I usually write and not the most in character thing ever but this is what came up for me when I was trying to get the right angle on this song. I hope someone else gets something out of it too. Also this concludes the songfic challenge! Thanks so much to all who kudo'ed and commented, it makes me very happy :D

“Stop pushing me away.”

The crooks of Wilson's elbows are in his armpits, his hand on the back of his head, their bare chests pressed together. House knows his lungs shouldn't feel so tight, that such close physical proximity to his lover should be nothing less than ecstasy; that this is intimacy, not imprisonment. That he's not trapped between the body on top of him and the mattress beneath. Must it really be such a necessity for Wilson, to smother him with attention like this? To make him so vulnerable as he lavishes him with the love and tenderness he doesn't deserve?

“House.” Wilson's lips are on his face, and there's that pleading, heavy edge to his tone. House's eyes are half-closed, and Wilson is inside him, but he's only granting the occasional, gentle thrust. He says this is about connection, not getting to orgasm as quickly as possible. “I'm trying to make love to you. Please, let me in.”

“You _are_ in, Jimmy,” House deflects, because he doesn't want to do this, not right now. Indulging Wilson is hard enough. “You fishing for me to tell you how big your dick is?”

This raises a hint of a smile. Wilson grants a few short rocks of his hips, and House stutters a moan; tries to focus on the physical sensation, the sheer, primitive pleasure of it. It's not that he dislikes sex, or even that he dislikes sex with Wilson. It's just... when it's like this, he cant lose himself. It's too raw. Requires too much of him, more than he can bear to give again. 

“I don't require you to validate my size,” Wilson says, after a while. “I just want you to trust me.”

House allows the kiss that Wilson moves in for, lingering, tongueless, tender, if only to emphasise the argument he intends to make. His eyes rest on Wilson's lips, absently pressing his hips up into his as he murmurs, “I do trust you.”

Wilson responds to his movement with another slow thrust, a grunt. They're beneath sheets and blankets, hovering at their waists, covering their legs. Somehow, actually being in bed and not merely on it, enhances the closeness. That should be a good thing. It doesn't feel like one. It makes him feel... afraid. 

As House processes this, he can't argue when Wilson's hand slips around to his face, cupping his cheek. “You don't trust me.”

He doesn't sound angry, but then again, that doesn't mean anything. People don't have to sound angry to be so. They might even outright declare that they're fine, but you might learn later that blindly believing that makes you an idiot. It would serve you right for not questioning it, for assuming it to be the truth, for being hopeful that what you did wasn't that bad, until you were shown in no uncertain terms that it was.

Wilson has stilled again, leaving House full with no stimulation. Purely physically connected; just as he wanted. And now House has fucked it up. He'll get dressed and leave, and he won't call for three days, and House will deserve it. He should have just gone along with it. Stopped thinking about what he needs for once...

“Darling, I'm not her.” Wilson kisses him again, that same chaste, gentle touch of his lips, and as House feels something wet splash against his nose he pulls away, bewildered. There's a tremor in his fingers as he reaches up to brush the tear off of Wilson's cheek. “It's okay. I don't expect you to trust me, after everything. But... I love you so, so much. I want to show you that you can. That I'd never do anything to hurt you. Please, let me in...”

House's eyes are closed, his fingers resting on Wilson's face; he's trying to catch his breaths, stop them shuddering down into his chest, catching on the lump on his own throat. Relax beneath Wilson, who's still here, still inside him, holding him close in an embrace that isn't meant to suffocate, but to free him. To show him that he's nothing like Stacy, who would never hold him close in bed like this. She'd never care for him enough to be moved to anything close to tears by his pain, his completely demolished ability to be close to somebody. 

If he and Wilson argue, Wilson never puts his hands on him. He steps away; takes a walk. When he returns, House waits for a carefully compiled list of reasons why he is wrong, but they never come; Wilson puts his arms around him and wants to forget. It's usually something minor, anyway.

If House messes something up – destroys one of Wilson's ties during his well-meaning attempts at doing the laundry, which happens almost weekly – Wilson laughs and shows him how to use the washer for the twelfth time. He never tells him he's useless, can't do a single thing right. Never shuts him out with arctic silences for days at a time.

If he wakes up in the middle of the night, sweating around tangled sheets, Wilson is there to wrap his arms around him and murmur reassurances until all traces of the nightmare fade away completely. 

If he's overwhelmed with memories at the hospital, Wilson lies to Cuddy about his whereabouts and lets him sit in his office for as long as he needs, bringing him coffee and holding his hand until he feels ready to go back.

He lets Wilson kiss him again, deeply this time; gingerly, shyly, snakes his arms around his waist. He stiffens at first at the increased closeness, the way the gesture brings his body so near, so tight up against him, as if they could amalgamate into one; but he perseveres. Has to do this. Has to fight the urge to push Wilson away, even at the terror he feels when he draws out of the kiss and a sob escapes him. But Wilson doesn't mock him; simply wipes away his tears just as House had done for him.

“Let's stop,” Wilson whispers, pressing a soft kiss to his forehead. “We can talk.”

House considers this for a moment. Then, licking his lips nervously, he says, “I want to trust you.”

“I know." Wilson's hands are on his face now, stroking his wet cheeks, his own eyes still shining. “I'm sorry. I'll be patient.”

House hesitates. Words are not his strong suit anyway, but with this... where to even begin? “I... I don't want to talk,” he says eventually. “Just... stay here.”

Wilson sniffs, a surprised smile crossing his lips. “You sure?”

He can't bring himself to speak again, so he just nods. Focuses on Wilson's body covering his, the weight of him against his middle, hands running across his hair, his face, lips following suit, as House lays still; Wilson murmurs with minimal coherence, further promises never to hurt him, reassurances that he loves him, praise that is at least starting to sting less the more he begins to believe he's worthy of it again. And he cries, and Wilson lets him, doesn't tell him he's pathetic or to pull himself together. He can't promise Wilson he won't feel suffocated again tomorrow, but right now, he feels safe.

He begins to realise: of course this isn't about vulnerability; what he does and doesn't deserve. It's about connection. And trusting that connection not to destroy him.


End file.
